


Intoxication

by KayMoon24



Series: The Strings That Bind Us [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Feels, Confessions, Drunkenness, Fighting, Gen, Tony's drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayMoon24/pseuds/KayMoon24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's intentions are good. His drink is good. And he thinks he has a pretty good idea of how to convince Bruce to leave the lab and join in on one of the Legendary Stark parties. Only, to do so when he's drunk is very, very bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intoxication

 

 

 

Four floors below a raging party in the spacious rooms of  _Stark Tower_ , a thick, lab door is opened with the logo of  _STARK INDUSTRIES_ on it. The light doesn't come on. The snap of a pulled opened window—and suddenly moonlight pours into the room like a white, crisp, metaphysical waterfall. Bruce Banner leans a little hesitantly out of the pane, casting a framed look into the midnight air that's following, cool and distant, through the labyrinth of the metal city of lights. The lab around him is eerily quiet, if one forgives the occasional scream and the gentle, pulsing thud of house music from upstairs.

Finally, Bruce feels like he can breathe.

"So this is where you've been hiding," A smooth, descending voice echoed from the stairway, dark black hair peeking outwards, glancing around, as if expecting a whole new theme downstairs. "Though, I gotta say, it was a little redundant _._ "

Bruce turned around, the colour slightly drained from his face. There, leaning in the doorway, Tony Stark swaggered, a drink in hand, that was glowing with flash that lit up the room with a fast green light from it's center, a reflection of the ceiling lights upstairs. He was donning the ever so subtle look of dark black vest and pants with alternating silver pinstripes. The social light smiled knowingly at Bruce's expression. Bruce swallowed, fingers locking. Here Tony was.  Yet, here Tony wasn't.

A magic trick.

"Sorry Doctor," Tony grinned lazily, his eyes a little too bright. "Clint asked me to come find you. And you know he brought something to my attention: you haven't been upstairs  _once_ to one of my parties. And I have to say, I'm a little offended."

Bruce grimaced, the shadows hiding the action. "Tony, evening. Clever. Now go enjoy your party."

Tony raised his eyebrows before actually walking fully into the room, his stride a little off. Bruce pulled a breath through his nose. He really didn't prefer talking to Tony when he was like this.

"I'm afraid you're missing my point, Bruce. I'd really like it if you'd come back up with me." He raised an eyebrow. "That's the idea of stomping down three flights of stairs, anyway."

Bruce matched his eyebrow raise with a monotone one of his own, his expression flat. "I heard the elevator."

"But yet I caught you off guard," Tony argued.

"I didn't think you'd actually  _walk in here_ ," Bruce defended exasperatingly. "Why are you even in here, again?"

"To invite you to my party."

"Well, I decline, thanks again."

"Well, I'm taking the R.S.V.P. pretty seriously this time. Why wouldn't I want the most brilliant guy I know at my own house party? You live here!"

"Tony," Bruce set his mouth seriously. "Come on. Think about it. Why  _couldn't_ I go up there?"

Tony considered this for a minute. "Because you're the best dancer anyone's ever seen, and it'd be too mind-blowing to conceive?" He answered playfully.

"Because I'm  _neurotic_ as hell, and drunken peopleare _neurotic_ and those mixing together? I don't think so." Bruce answered quite non-playfully.

"Drunk people? Not everyone at my party is drunk! There's some mature class  _somewhere_ in these rooms, I assure you." Tony snapped his fingers. "I'll seat you next to Pepper."

Bruce’s brows furrowed. "Pepper is a sweet heart. But I'm pretty sure I scare her, too."

"You don't scare anyone—"

"Tony,  _please."_ Bruce closed his eyes, interrupting him. "I said no. Can we just drop this now? I'll—I'll talk you in the morning."

"Alright," Tony said, almost as if he was honestly going to retreat. "Fine. But, you're going to share a drink with me."

Bruce opened his eyes, full glass-gaze on the other scientist. "Tony, you know how some people have fun, drunken, silly party stories?"

Tony's glossily bright eyes shone a little more starrily. "Of course."

"Well, I don't have a single one of those on a sober day." Bruce dead panned.

Tony only laughed, as if Bruce's obvious vibe of discomfort in the room enticed his means forward. "I'm not talking about The Other Guy. Remember? I'm talking to  _you._  What could one drink hurt?"

Bruce's face imitated a complete shutdown of Tony's master computer. "Tony—"

"You're not a lightweight, are you?"

"Tony—" Bruce bit into Tony's words, but the inebriated playboy continued:

"Because I have'ta say, that's pretty  _fucking_ funny—"

"Tony!" Bruce objected, the best of his annoyance getting to him since Tony let himself into the room. "The last time  _I_ had a drink? I—well, I couldn't even begin to explain how disastrous it was…"

"Really?"

Tony made a show of getting himself comfortable on the circular cushion stool, a leg crossed up,  bouncing on one knee, black shoes shinning with polish. He leaned slightly forward, off balance, his brown eyes glassy, yet somehow continuing to trace the patterns and charts of Bruce's emotional state. Status: Calm. 55% of a successful chance to coaxing Bruce into socializing and this enigmaous thing called "fun". He motioned to Bruce to take the stool beside him and, begrudgingly, Banner did.

An easy, friendly smile slid to his lips—white teeth flashing dully in the moonlight. He raised a hand and chose a silver breaker stirrer, plopping it into his drink and churning it without a care for the chemicals that could be resting on it. He raised his glass, along with an eyebrow. Self-consciously, Bruce realized he had nothing to do with his hands. He curled his thumb and index finger knowingly and reached for his glasses. As he pulled them off, the room became a disfocused; a slight blur, a hopeful wall between Tony and the party and reality.

"So, how  _does_ that story end?"

Bruce eyed him carefully, his spine curled as he cleaned his glasses, stalling. "I really don't want to talk about it."

Tony only made a polite agreeing sound in his throat, something akin between an escaped chuckle or a drowning, impulsive swallow, taking a longer than necessary slip of his martini, which continued to glow faintly in the moving shadows of the lab. "Mm?—Blacked out, I bet? Don't worry, I've had plenty of those—"

"No," Bruce edged out, his eyes suddenly scathing. He returned his glasses back to nose but kept his eyes averted. "No, you  _don't_ know at all. This isn't a fun story to tell to the crowds of people up there, Tony. Not even close."

Tony delayed a change in posture, some small, burning alarm in his brain sounding that said backing up should be the appropriate response right now—but it was so faint. He chuckled, shook his head: he still had control. Without his consent though, his legs swayed as he gripped the counter for balance, letting out a chuckle instead. "Bruce—"

"Is this a  _joke_ to you?" Bruce continued his knuckling coiling against the table, eyes darkening at Tony's laughter, inching forward, his jaw locked tightly. Tony's grin suddenly slipped like the percentages in his head. Maybe he was at 38% now. Maybe he didn’t mean to laugh so much. He wasn’t laughing at Bruce. Why would that—he wouldn’t—he’d—it just happened. Uncomfortable, sarcastic or amused, laughter was often Tony’s reaction because silence _was so much harder_ to deal with. Both their eyes were alert and aware, dark brown blackness staring down each other.

Tony was the first to break the short pause, readjusting himself, a hand pulling at the light blue tie around his neck. He loosened the knot chewing into his throat, accidently tugging at his Arc Reactor by misake. Explained a few things. Can’t untie metal. Can’t undo that mistake. He opened his mouth to speak but Bruce beat him to it, his voice suddenly horse, softer than usual, but somehow lingered in the darkness with a distinctly bitter edge.

"You need to leave," The physicist broke all connection. He turned his back to Tony. He began to stand up. "Please. I’ll say it again: please."

Shit. 25%.

What do to. What to do? Tony responded with a curious expression that steeled him. He was curious about Bruce’s attempts to scare him away, like it’d actually work? Please. A ‘please’? He helped himself to another sip. For courage, right? He reached out a hand to make Bruce face him again, but more so to help steady himself on the chair.

"Hey," Tony sought coolly for attention. Bruce all but flinched away, standing now, walking a few paces, before finally turning back around. Bruce raised his arms wide, gesturing to the metal, glass, and lifelessness around him of complete circuits and wires.

"Tony, I don't know if you extroverted guys are one for studying a being's rational environment, but the idea of my being so closed off,  _alone,_ in this space, is so that I don't have to deal with—" Bruce's eyes narrowed at the drink in Tony's hand. "Everyone."

The look of resentment seemed to scratch through the buzzing high of a party in Tony's skull. The black-haired billionaire glanced at his drink, giving it a shake, before standing up himself. He raised a hand slightly arrogantly, without meaning to be, losing his thought for a second.

"You mean me," Tony concluded smoothly, a second longer than it should have taken, "Like this. Drinking."

Bruce lowered his gaze, fingers twisting at his jacket self-consciously. It had been so easy before to talk to Tony. In long winded sharings of ideological deals in mathematics and formulas and ideas and plans and electrons and computers that Bruce had missed so much when it came to living in India. Or China. Or his old apartment, after he had been run out from his job. But then he discovered something slipping about Tony. Something that made little, cold chills roll up Bruce's back, and cause him to suddenly disappear—just like Tony did. Tony Stark—the man who he'd saved the life of—was suddenly _gone_ around other people. The parties, the drinking, the cameras. There was just this…emptiness about the whole parade of it all.

Alcohol. Alcohol was magic. The greatest practical joke of a trick that the human raced decided to play on itself. Bruce nearly snarled at the clubs, the bars.  _Watch as you drink your self-control away, your intellect, your memories, your relationships, your thoughts…watch yourself become some simple minded monster. Go on. It's fun. Everyone else is doing it…it's acceptable…it's normal…_  
  
"Drunk," Bruce admitted, his voice soft, eyes nervous and overly large through the lenses of his frames. "I'm…unstable enough and, this may sound assholeish of me to say but, you're different like this."

"And that makes you uncomfortable?" Tony asked sarcastically.

_"Take a hint much?"_ Bruce snapped. His skin felt tight and his muscles ached inside of his jaw. He let it go. He pretend there was this button in the back on his head that could reset himself back into neural. He started again.

"I'm always off beat, Tony. It just—it makes me more nervous. So far, you're the only person here that I feel okay with. I don't feel like you're constantly eyeing me to turn into…well." Bruce's words faded as he focused on pushing some hair out of his face, fingers edging through his hair. "But like that…" Bruce raised a finger to point at the ceiling. "Up there."

"So what?" Tony asked, genuinely confused.

Bruce remained silent, his eyes tight.

"Fine, fine, I'll guess," Tony flourished another swallow of his drink, the sting of the liquor feeling a little less fiery. "Do I turn into my  _own_ green-eyed monster?" Tony suggested studying the now ironic colour of his green, glowing martini.

Bruce made a noise in his throat again that Tony had grown partial to calling Banner's version of a chuckle. "Something like that."

The doctor paused. "I don't feel like I'm talking to Tony Stark—the genius that invented  _Stark Enterprise_. The goddamn first man to practically  _invent_  being a super hero. I don't know who this guy is, but he's not Tony Stark. He's not the man that made the worse of his situation and decided to help people. Where's  _that_ guy?"

"He's right here—and,  _that_  guy," Tony pointed to himself, "came down here to tell  _this_  guy," he poked a finger towards Banner, "not to worry about  _The Other Guy_ , and join him," He waved his hand around recklessly, catching a beaker in the process, which rolled off the table and nearly shattered to the floor before Bruce caught it—"for some fun."

"Eloquently said," Bruce complimented wearily, setting the beaker back in its stand.

"So, you'll give it a try?" Tony smiled charmingly, like always. Bruce fought to not roll his eyes.

"How many languages can I say 'no' in before you get that it's not going to happen?"

"For me?" Tony wagered, his smile slipping. "You know I wouldn't let anyone hassle you."

Bruce sighed. He glanced around the room. Around exits and windows and places where, if he could escape, if he could turn invisible or fly or do anything else besides destroy, he’d have a different choice. But with Tony, it’s really only a matter of time.  
  
"I suppose," Bruce considered, fingers pitching at a brown jacket sleeve. "But it's not so easy. I'd only really want to be around you, and you're swarmed with people. That makes things complicated."

"But best things in life are, Banner. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Probably stuck somewhere between my will to murder and my moral intend to not." Bruce laid out artfully with self-mocking humor, his eyes calm and distant. Still Tony persevered.

"Just this night. One time. It sucks being alone down here, am I right?"

Bruce shrugged, touched his glasses. Thumb print smudges. Sweating already. Embarrassing and uncontrollable. "It's not so bad. But I know you don't want to be down here."

Tony feinted a hint of shock. "I  _live_  down here as much as  _you_ do, thank you very much Doctor Banner."

"I mean now—" Bruce scowled, eyes to the stairs. "As you…are?"

Tony only laughed. "I'm only on my fifth drink."

"Well, you know what they say, Tony: One drink's too many, and a million is never enough." Bruce answered quietly, hiding the scoff of his tone that he wanted so badly to attach on the end.

"Are you trying to  _imply_ something here?" Tony fixed his dark eyes to Banner's.

Surprise. Tony was still pretty quick, apparently. Bruce back-peddled.

"No," the physicist decided after a minute. "No. Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm not interested. Go have fun."

"No, no, no," Tony chided, walking forward, glass outstretched. "Just one sip. That's all I'm asking. Consider it a compromise, and I'll never bother you about this again."

Bruce shook his head, and Tony merely stretched his pleading grin further, faulting the steel in Bruce's eyes.

"For  _me._  Just share this drink with me, for a friend's sake."

Tony pushed the glass into Bruce's hand where the physicist stared at it apprehensively.

"Will you leave if I do this?"

Tony debated this for a second, the smile somehow continuing to grow on his lips from years of holding it in front of millions of microphones and carefully watching eyes; a smile of success, self-gratification, a tad off center. "Probably."

"Considering that that's not definite, I take it back." Bruce went to hand the glass back but Tony kept his own palms flat. Bruce grimaced at the sudden, undeniable whiplash that came from the infuriating helplessness he felt to not be able to hand something blatantly unwanted back to someone else; it was electric in his veins. He could engulf himself in flames over the fact that Tony wouldn’t fucking _take his drink back._ He breathed in through his nose, burning the air down his throat.

"Why? Can you just tell me that?" Tony protested in honest.

"What?" Bruce repeated wearily. “I’ve been perfectly clear. You aren’t listening—“

"I’m listening just fine—you just keep saying that same things over and over! I mean, seriously, would it _kill_ you to just trust me? To just—have a drink? Relax? Lighten up!”

"Lighten up?" Bruce hissed.  _"Lighten up?"_  
  
"Yes!" Tony flashed his own teeth, his pale skin flaring exasperatingly. “For God’s sake, Banner.”

"You can’t “lighten” this, Tony," Banner began, wrapping his fingers around the stem and staring down into the bowl.  "You can’t imagine how _tired_ I feel.” His fingers cinched around every word. “I'm tired of things breaking when I touch them. I'm tired of making every woman I know  _hysterical_ , and all the men I know ready to _kill_ me just by—by being there, by _standing there_ because I don’t have a choice to _leave_ and—and— I'm  _tired_  of S.H.I.E.L.D. trying to hunt me down. I'm tired of hurting the few friends I have left and throwing myself lonely,  _god-damn_  pity parties! And I'm tired of constantly buying new clothes, and, maybe, just maybe, the worst and most selfish part of it _all?_  I'M TIRED OF WAKING UP IN STRANGE PLACES  _NAKED!_ "

And suddenly, he was yelling, without second thought, without understanding, his teeth bore open wide and his fingers shattered the neck of Tony’s glass effortlessly. The pieces fell to the floor in gentle, glittering echoes of sound—momentary broken noises tapping against the floor like a rainstorm, like an ending of a hurricane. A single second, an unconscious reaction on Tony’s part, and it was hard to tell what a second means, the future too quick for real escapism; maybe Tony meant to back up, maybe he meant to move away, far away, but in his state he only stumbled forward, but somehow Tony was still there, with the tiny claws of fractured glass scratching at expensive shoes.

Slowly, Bruce uncurled his fist. Too late. The shards of glass were deeply embedded; the sting from the alcohol of Tony's smashed drink instant set his hand on fire, causing teeth to clench as it poured into multiple gashes. Bruce stood in shock, barely moving. His hair meshed to his forehead, his head locked forward to stare at Tony, eyes wild and livid, nostrils flared. But he’d stopped screaming. His mouth was open but nothing was coming out. The room was silent, beside the rhythmic dance music that pulsed in double-time like a hectic heart-beat within metal walls. Somehow, he’d snapped out of it. Those people. This room. They were still intact.  
  
Tony was slower. He hadn’t even blinked yet. He looked so pale, like a ghost had spirited straight through him and decided to stay. Bruce was afraid Tony might just faint—or something worse still, perhaps vomit—or— _or_ ——he stopped himself from the reasoning, pushing away words like _disgusted_ or _terrified._

But something would happened. Bruce waited for it. It would come soon. Tony wasn’t that far gone. Tony's _true_ reaction. All the same. A scream, a shout, the sudden pound of retreating footsteps.

Only behind nearly hyperventilating breaths did Tony remain where he was. His eyes surprisingly bright, and his expression, where fear should have stood, only a slightly shocked, intoxicated gap.

"You know," Tony began, his voice strangely normal. “For the record.” He lowered himself down on his knees in a less than graceful heap—looking back on it, Bruce wondered if Tony’s legs had actually just given out from under him but he tried to pass it off as something else— as the billionaire’s fingers started to clumsy feel for the broken bits of glass along the floor between them. "…I've had a few shares of waking up naked in strange places, too."

"Oh  _God_ ," Bruce gasped. Now it was hitting him like an eerie, claustrophobic calm, his heart beat not as loud as so that he didn't have to scream his words over the force inside him. The doctor dropped to his knees, instantly scraping up all the broken glass before he insulted Tony any further. " _I am so sorry—_ "

"Save it," the billionaire held up a hand to which Bruce winced back from. Tony merely stared at him questionably.  "Bruce, come on. It's just a little glass. I break these things  _nightly_. D'you think I was going to hit you?"

Bruce could only swallow the simmer in his throat, a sudden wetness dripping down his left hand. "Christ," he whispered. He couldn't bring himself to look but now the knees of his pants were also wet. There was blood. A lot of it. Pooling out onto Tony's brilliantly clean lab floor. "I always do this..."

"Hey," Tony interjected over Bruce's disturbing, mantra-like murmurings of guilt. When he still didn't stop, Tony found the nerve to snap his fingers in front of Bruce's face, feeling better, feeling like he had control again. The quick sound was reason enough for Banner to look at him. "Bruce. It's no big deal, alright?"

"Yes, it is a big deal!" Bruce faltered at the scene unfurling inside of his head. "You  _have no idea_  what could have happened just now. All those people up stairs?! Clint, Thor, Natasha, Steve _—_ Jesus Christ,  _you!_  I would have killedyou _all_ —I would have done that, and—"

"Christ Banner, it's just a broken glass."Tony stated back firmly, trying to keep himself from losing his control over his own vocal cords. Bruce’s aggression was disquietingly easy to feel, inexplicably seeping inside of his own skin; Tony _wanted_ to fight back. It was hard to resist screaming in dominance. It was familiar and there and frightening. He tried to focus on the task of the glass as hand to distract him—Banner had gone quiet—gone somewhere deep inside of his over-reacting head, Tony guessed—and these pieces of glass were too damn tiny to see, too hard to find—

"I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE  _GLASS!_  I MEANT THAT IF I TOOK YOUR  _DRINK!"_ Bruce bellowed, suddenly, splittingly, practically into Tony's bewildered face." You may have the privilege to escape all the horrors  _you've_  done, or the problems  _you've_  faced with that ethanol, but I  _can't._  I can't forget! Don't you know what happens when  _I_  forget? Don't you  _understand_  that? The last time I drank—I nearly  _raped_ Betty!"

Tony's last attempt at controlling the situation slipped from his face and crumbled to the floor like a wisp from a candle burning at both ends. His dark, brown eyes searching, tense, waiting for more—it never came. Like a lightening flash, it blew up between them and left no trace. Did it even happen?  
  
 Instantly, Bruce simply pulled away entirely, his shoulders rising and falling in huge gasps, his face buried in his bloodied pants legs, his glasses missing. So Stark, in all the intelligent phrases or comfort he could bring himself to say, mixed with the martini, the scotch, some rum, a few shots,  the interaction between falling percentages in his brain and the salty, rusty smell of drying blood, could only murmur:

_"What?"_

Bruce shook his head at Tony's voice, his glasses folded tightly in his good hand. "Please. Don't make me say it again."

Tony only continued to stare, a little more than half crocked, sitting on his knees in a puddle of fresh, thick blood and glass dusting hanging over the silver of his black, pinstriped vest. Tony pulled his eyes away from Banner's anguished form and looked at the floor.

"You're bleeding?" Tony asked, dumbfounded, reaching towards his friend as if in all his drunken ignorance he only just realized the cause and effect idea of sharp objects to soft flesh.

"Don't," Bruce snapped, bringing up his head quickly, his eyes covered in shadows so that Tony couldn't make out if there were still burning with hatred, or cowering with fear, or…"I know how to fix it myself. I'm used to it."

The doctor was on his feet, moving towards the open window, silver showing the stress of ripped brown hair, and huge, desperate eyes. He pushed his fist, covering his chest, rocking a little on the balls of his heels, trying to keep himself together, ashamed.

A little off balance himself, Tony pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward on his slick under-footing, to which Bruce pushed himself further away, something like a growl rising from his chest.

"Easy," Tony murmured, trying not to slur, putting up both hands slowly in the universal sign of surrender, "Easy. I'm not going to come any closer."

"Now…when you…said what you said…" Tony continued, keeping himself talking. It seemed to help in his usual interactions with Bruce. Conversation meant mental simulation—rather than the silent treatment of "a non-stressful" environment that Fury always suggested. "Do  _you_  try to do that to her? Or The Other Guy?"

Bruce continued to rock, holding his injured hand, forcing himself into a smaller and smaller position. "I…I don't know," He managed out, his voice tight. "That's just it. I don't remember who imposed what. I just woke up, she was gone, and half of the lower New York was on fire. I  _blacked out_ , as you mentioned."  
  
Bruce swallowed faintly as he continued. "It was only a week later that she told me what happened that night. And…since then…well, obviously, I haven't been around her. I started traveling."

"That's…" Tony began, mouth unsure of what to say, where to even begin.

" _I_  don't allow myself to be around her," Bruce's eyes flashed with conviction, as if his words were the collar around the beast within him. "I know that.  _He_ knows that.

"God," Tony remarked, grasping the edge of a table. "How did that even happen?"

Bruce leaned into his hand, before hissing and pulling away, tugging at the glass. "I was…God," He paused, licking at his lips. "I was…sitting in my old apartment here…watching  _Doctor Who_ of all goddamn things. Everything was fine, until she called."

"Ah," Tony added, as if that explained everything. "Betty Ross? She was your girlfriend then, right?"

"My only girlfriend."

_"Only?"_

"Since college."

"Well look'it you Mister Banner." Tony forced his face grave to keep a smirk from flickering on.

"She…Betty…she said she was attending this late dinner with some celebrity…her dad was an army General, and so she got favors like that…she…really…  _admired_ him. This Prince Junior guy."

Tony's eyes widened. "I guess I kinda know how Pepper feels now. Sheesh."

"Yeah…and…I don't know. I cracked a bottle, tried not to think about her, a-and him, and the next thing I know…" Bruce peeled the glass from his palm, another gush of blood tumbling down his wrist. He didn't make a single sound of pain. "...retrospectively, it was in a dark, dark place in my life. I had no money, no friends…nothing really, to lose. Except everything that mattered. Her."

"Nearly, you said. You… you didn’t find her?"

"God  _no!_  Oh God, no!" Bruce outbursted, his brown eyes livid with self-hate. "I tore apart all of New York looking and looking. Thank God I never found her. Thank  _God."_

"You really loved her, huh?" Tony asked, completely overwhelmed.

"I  _do_  love her. I love her  _so much_ that I—" Bruce froze again, the words stuck to his mouth.

"Sorry," Tony nodded solemnly, "Do go on?"

Bruce turned to look out the window. The moonlight seemed to be burning. "Now look where that's got me. She fucking  _hates_  me, Tony. And I don't blame her. I hate me, too. Him.  _Us._ " He spat out the final word like a curse.

"It's gotten you on the finest team S.H.I.E.L.D. can muster up," Tony stated blearily, "And it allowed me the chance to shake the world famous Bruce Banner's hand."

"Famous for being a monster, Tony. That's nothing to be proud about. Nothing to be known the rest of your life for," Bruce loudly whispered, pulling at the shards of glass once more.

"And I'm pretty sure I'm famous for being a reckless, sleep around, prick. But, shit man, this isn't…I just…" Tony's thought swirled. "So… _that's_ why you hate drinking?"

Bruce laughed bitterly. A real sound this time, but it struck the midnight air with a hollow, empty baritone.

"No. I don't hate alcohol. I hate people that abuse it. Like hate my  _father."_ Bruce breathed out heavily through his nose, feeling the flow of control release back to his conscious. Tony froze his head slightly to the side. Bruce swallowed, his voice caught nervously in his throat as he explained. "He w-was an alcoholic, and a horrible, terrible man."

A sharp flicker of pain suddenly trembled through Tony's electromagnetic arc reactor, and nearly instantly, so used to the cognations of his chest, Tony's hand flew to touch the warm, radiating white light that shined through all his clothing. He closed his eyes tightly for a second, before the room started to tilt— _God_ , he just wanted another drink.

_D'you think I was going to hit you?_ His sardonic tagline to Banner echoed to him in his brain. God, why didn't he see it before?

Tony swallowed, the effort draining as his mouth felt dry and sore. His weight felt all the more heavy to hold up on his own. His father? Bruce's  _father?_  Christ.  _Christ._

Tony's stomached twisted, acid rushing up his esophagus—he shuddered to keep command, a thousand floor-cut images of his father rushing in the back of his eyes like a projector to an IMAX screen. Cool, cutting, dark eyes—that used to spark in brilliance and creativity— that saw in a cunning, collective manner, that only spoke of power, money, and sometimes, his mother. A bottle in hand—God, how many years? All his life? When he was first born? Tony didn't even have a single finger to rise in memory of a time when his dad seemed to look at him—really  _look_ , fully and unprejudicely at his son. Tell him he was  _proud_. He'd dress himself up for the crowd, smile for the pictures, but…as the saying goes… _behind closed doors_..

Tony suddenly found it a lot harder to breathe, the taste of alcohol on his breath making him nauseous. He shook his head hard, the room moving in slow circles, but he continued to talk,  _Banner, think about Banner._

"You—you don't have to say anything more," Tony kept his face straight, hand still pressed to his reactor.

"I'm sorry again, Tony." Bruce's voice came out quiet and forlorn. Tony couldn't bring himself to look.

"No.  _I'm_ sorry," he said to the wavering tiles beneath his feet, to the blood, and the glass. "I just wanted to, you know, share, I guess. But now…I understand. And I'm sorry."

"You were only trying to help," Bruce asided.

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, suddenly unable to put into words the sudden divide between the two scientists that sped through his veins and his veins alone. The drug that Tony desperately craved. The drug that Bruce never could escape.

"I'm sorry," was all that Tony said again, his voice drained of his charisma.

Bruce sighed again, a scratched hand pulling through untidy hair. "Me too."

Tony's world spun away, and he turned towards the door—the smell of blood was not helping.

"I'm going to go get bandages—you can't take care'a that alone," he slurred slightly, and made for the stairs. He felt his whole body aching when he was finally out of Banner's sight, and braced a hand to glide along the stairwell as he moved towards the party above.

He passed by Clint and Natasha dancing, and Thor chatting with some hippie guy at a set-in bar, and nearly missed Pepper's intense glare—Shit. Too little, too late to avoid her now. But he continued on,  _had too_ , least suave Stark vomit on the dance floor of his own party.

Pepper strutted after him, her eyes worried yet furious at the same time.  _Where had he been? He was supposed to give acceptance speech for_ Oz Corp _ten minutes ago! And now he's—he's—is that... blood?_

_And now he's…going into the bedroom?_

She followed him swiftly through their door, the metal snapping shut.

"Tony?" Pepper panted out, her eyes wide as she watched him disappear into the bathroom.

The sound of a lock.

"Tony?" Pepper tries again, now at the door, a hand sliding over the knob. "Tony? Are you okay? I...I saw the blood."

Inside, Tony stared at himself in the mirror for a second, completely ignoring his girlfriend's worried calls. And Pepper knows this. A loud smack is heard outside his door, and it twists his stomach more—his knees are starting to buckle, the acid is rising and  _why can't he stop thinking about his own father?_

He strains his eyes harder, but the image keeps moving, much like the room, but it's shifting his face. His eyes aren't his own anymore—they're darker. Blacker—with blown red veins and bits of yellow. There's only a mustache now, too,—the hair is combed back, smoother, hiding everything inside that those eyes never could. They're jaded, irascible, years of tiresome work and the avoidance of marriage problems and board meetings and CEOs and never looking at his son, bottle in hand, cast a sideways glance at your son's accomplishments—take a swing—Miss out on Christmas?—Take a swing—So, your son graduated high school at 14, no wait,  _college at 19_ now? You never could keep track anyway—take a swing.

His vision tinges to black as all the liquid in his system crawls, burns his throat.

"Tony!  _Dammit!_  Open this door! _Jarvis!"_ Pepper's small petite fist bounces off harmlessly. Tony snapped his head up to look, causing the walls to shake.

"Yes, madam?" The British voice intoned, as if it was waiting for an order to end the confusion.

"Over-write section A. 14." Tony called out instantaneously, keeping manual locks between himself and his assistant, who'd see _—_ who'd see  _everything_. Who probably already knows _—everything._

_"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK!"_ The fury in Pepper’s voice rose up two complete octaves in frustration.

"'Jus' a-sec'ond, okay?" He managed out in a gasp that rocked his body. The room won't stop spinning. He thought about opening the door—it wouldn't be the first time he'd allow _—_  Pepper knew how to make this kind of thing stop _—_  But all Tony could think about was the split second of the air between Bruce and himself being shattered with a fist full of glass. Tony stared down into the toilet bowl, his reflection no longer his father, but he felt so repulsed by it. So _—_

_—_ There's a sound of shattering glass in his mind.

Tony Stark convulsed over the bowl, and is silently sick by the alcohol over-flooding his system. But even after he's done, cleaned up, and confided Pepper with a hug, and not one of his usual, sly, French-kisses (the ones that Pepper makes adorably ridiculous lil' squeaks too, he's found) he still can't shake the revulsion inside of his chest. No, he can't bring back Tony Stark, playboy, philanthropist, billionaire-who-doesn't-give-a-damn, tonight.

That night Tony crawled into bed beside Pepper, completely sober. Coldly sober. The first time in…he doesn’t even know. But it won’t go away—it being the pale, shaky, and weariness of what he thought he’d throw up and flushed away. He tells Pepper nothing else, and she chalks it up to a fever, something normal people would get but Tony felt was entirely too healthy of a lie that he didn’t deserve. The guilt ate at him, biting harder and harder with each soft kiss she planted over his flushed cheeks.

_If only that were the case, Pep_. He thought to himself, rolling away from her lax embrace after he was sure she was asleep.

He deserved every second of feeling this way, he decided. There was no cure. No known medicine. Not even time, or sex, or Pepper's compassionate affection. When he had walked down into the lab to bring Bruce back to the world of the living, he had no idea the amount of repression he was drinking down. And it took world-weary ol' Bruce to pull that out of him a fit of rage of blood, spit, and glass.

The amount of relation Tony saw behind Bruce's eyes. And his tiny, dark reflection that he saw there.

He didn't sleep that night thinking of how much he looked like his father.

Tony Stark was sickened by himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Damn. Stark's daddy issues are off the charts. And Bruce's father WAS an outward alcoholic, who not only abused his brilliant son, but killed Bruce's mother during the action of it all. So sad. How could I NOT let these two talk about it? (Ahh, but it's so badddddddd.)


End file.
